


Bedside Stories

by Hedgepigs



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Coma, Doctor Watson, False Memories, Gen, Hospitals, Lestrade is still a DI, Patient Sherlock, Sarah is a nurse, Sherlock AU, Sherlock in a coma, Work In Progress, comatose Sherlock, hospital au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-24 09:59:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/938611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hedgepigs/pseuds/Hedgepigs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock AU where Sherlock Holmes has been comatose for twenty years and John Watson is his new doctor. As John becomes more and more hopeful for Sherlock’s miraculous recovery, he begins reading him detective stories. All the adventures we know of, from 'A Study in Pink' to 'The Hounds of Baskerville': they’re all just Sherlock’s dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work was inspired by a post I came across on Tumblr. It became an idea that wouldn't go away, creating this. It will be at least several chapters long (hopefully - at this time I have no idea where I'm going with it!) but I hope you like it. I have done a large amount of research into comatose patients and have been correct in my description where possible, but there is a lot we don't know about the comatose state and a lot of factors are individual to a patient. Please bare this in mind while reading this first chapter. I am not a medical person and so some things may be inaccurate. Sorry if this is the case. I've done my best with information available on the internet. Thanks, and I hope you enjoy this first chapter. Apologies for any grammatical mistakes and I'm so sorry blah blah blah I have no skill at writing.

The nurse smiled to herself as she finished the first set of her patient’s daily checks. She straightened the bed sheet and turned to face the doorway as she heard the telltale irregular footsteps of Doctor Watson.  
  
He reached the door, his shape visible through the frosted glass for a second before he knocked.  
  
“What’s his status?” The doctor asked as he walked into the room. That was one of the most memorable traits of this new Doctor – he commanded attention through the mere tone of his voice and the way he stood, back straight and head held proud.  
  
“Good morning, Doctor Watson. Same as he always is, I’m afraid.” She said solemnly before moving to the foot of the hospital bed and handing him the clipboard of stats with a small, kind smile.  
  
The doctor gave his unresponsive patient a look of sadness before accepting the clipboard. He lifted the first page to scan the continuation on the one underneath.  
  
Same as yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. Same as always. Never any change. No response to outside stimuli, brain function minimal. On the scale used to analyse response from comatose patients, those who were rated as less than an eight were patients that were not expected to recover from their coma on their own.  
  
This patient, Sherlock Holmes, was rated as merely a four.  
  
John Watson looked up from the clipboard. “Sarah, how long has he been here?” He asked softly. He’d been working in this private civilian hospital for around a month since being invalided from his tour in Afghanistan where he'd served as an army medic. He reached to rub absently at the aching scar on his left shoulder, hidden by his clothing.  
  
The nurse turned her attention to the surrounding machines, whose only sound was the regular robotic beeping of the patient’s heart beat.  
  
“I’ve been working here nine years. He’s been here longer than me.”  
  
John nodded. He looked around the room, the room known by staff as simply ‘Sherlock’s Room’. Blank white walls, harsh unnatural lighting and the faint smell of disinfectant as found throughout the hospital. This room, however, wasn’t like the rest of the hospital. This was room number 221B, and this was the room of a Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the patient who had been in a coma for twenty long years.  
  
“Do you know how it happened?” John asked as he replaced the clipboard into its holder at the foot of the bed.  
  
“He was just a child. Eight years old, I think. He was at the swimming pool with his older brother when he fell in. It was several minutes before anyone could get him out.” She said.  
  
 _Ah. Oxygen deprivation to the brain from drowning._  
  
“Where were their parents at the time of the accident?”  
  
“Dead. He and his brother were orphans. His brother blames himself for the accident.”  
  
John nodded. It had said the rest in his patient files. The boy’s heart had stopped for several minutes before ambulance workers had managed to apply CPR and get it beating again. The chlorine from the pool had caused extensive damage to his lungs when he’d taken in a large amount of water. It was a miracle he’d survived the initial trip to hospital all those years ago.  
  
And since then, he’d been in a coma where he wouldn’t wake. No amount of stimuli recorded had made a difference. There was nothing more they could do, only hope the boy, now a man, would wake on his own. Sherlock’s brother, the file had mentioned, refused to consider the fact that he would most likely never wake and had declined the hospital’s request to turn off his life support machine. Since then Sherlock’s brother had had Sherlock moved to a private hospital and ensured Sherlock’s care had been paid for.  
  
John moved to assess the information displayed on one of the several screens by the bed. The single green line that allowed staff to see a visual representation of the patient’s heart rate was rising and falling with every beat, just as it always did. His heart beat no faster or slower than it had ever done: just another factor of Sherlock Holmes that had never shown any change.  
  
“Any sign of anoxia? Any bedsores?” John asked intently.  
  
“No. Oxygen stats are normal and we're also changing his position every two hours or so."  
  
"And any muscle weakness or degradation?"

"Not that we can see. His joints and muscles are responding well to the schedule of a passive range of motion exercises.” Sarah replied.  
  
“Good. Well,” John began, stepping away from the bed. “I must continue my rounds. I’m pretty sure Mrs. Collins’ ingrown toenail requires my attention. If anything-”  
  
Sarah smiled. “Yes yes, if anything changes you’ll be the first to know, Doctor Watson.”  
  
“Call me John. If you allow me to call you by your forename, I surely must allow you to do the same with me.”  
  
Sarah nodded. “Okay, John.”  
  
The ex-soldier made his way to the door. “If you need me, I’ll be assuring Mrs. Collins that her ingrown toenail won’t affect her ability to model swimwear.”  
  
Sarah laughed as John left the room. She filled in necessary information on the patient chart before crossing her arms and finishing the conversation she was having with her patient before John’s entrance. Yes, the conversation was of course one-sided, but Sarah didn’t care.  
  
“I’ve never seen a doctor like him, you know. Attentive, respectful – plus he treats other members of staff as equals. Just the other day I saw him help out a hospital cleaner who had an unfortunate time mopping up a rather large puddle of vomit. He’s a good man, that one,” She said, uncrossing her arms and putting up the side rails on the hospital bed with a soft click. “You’re his favourite patient, too. He always comes to see you first when he’s on shift and for a little longer than any other doctor would.”  
  
Sarah shifted to check the time on the little watch clipped to the pocket of her uniform. “Oh, I’ve gotta go. But I’ll be back at twelve to help with your sponge bath. That must be the highlight of your day. Well, see you later, Sherlock.” She said as she walked to the door.  
  
At the last moment she turned, as she always did, a tiny part of her still hopeful that one day she’d turn around to see Sherlock Holmes waking up or at least showing signs of reaction to her words. As always there was no change. It had been twenty years of there being no difference in Sherlock's condition.  
  
Maybe though, one day soon, against all the odds, that would change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
>  **'Anoxia':** A lack of oxygen. Sherlock suffers from an anoxic brain injury and is the cause of his current state.  
>  **'Passive range of motion':** A range of motion exercises performed by a person other than the patient moving the individual body parts through range of motion to the point of resistance but not past.
> 
> Big thanks go to Ramus Myelin for these definitions. Thank you for your help! :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit from a family member.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read the first chapter! I honestly wasn't expecting more than a couple of views. Thanks very much! I got this chapter done within twenty fours hours of the first as a way of saying thanks to you guys. Additional chapters may take as much as a week to complete (I'm currently a bit busy planning my three-month trip to Africa happening later this year) so please forgive me.
> 
> New chapters will be out every Saturday if I can manage it! Thank you again to you all! Enjoy this installment.
> 
> \- Léa

John sighed in relief as he saw the clock’s minute hand finally reach the half-way mark in its complete rotation around the clock face. It was half past one, and frankly John was glad. After a surprisingly hectic morning filled with minor injuries (thankfully) including Mrs. Collins’ ingrown toenail and a small child with a piece of lego stuck up his nose, it was the time in John’s shift set aside for lunch.

However, when reaching the junction of corridors that could either lead him to the hospital’s cafeteria or the maze of wards containing rooms 110 – 300 in the opposite direction, he chose to turn right instead of his usual left turn. He had no idea why he chose to forego lunch today (he’d managed to find a minute to quickly eat an energy bar earlier) but he felt the need to visit Sherlock in his room and check up on him.

He smiled kindly as he passed several members of staff and patients alike in the surprisingly narrow corridor. He put his back to the wall to move out of the way as a porter struggled to guide an occupied wheelchair he was pushing in a straight line. The young man with short dark hair smiled nervously at him as he passed, the patient he was transporting swearing loudly all the while. 

“Sorry Sir,” The porter said, as he narrowly avoided crashing the patient into an empty trolley that sat nearby. “This wheelchair’s got a mind of its own.” 

John smiled again. “Don’t worry about it. Good luck with him.” He said, gesturing to the large, balding man in the wheelchair whose gruffly voice was just a constant stream of curses. 

“Thanks.” The young man said before continuing down the hallway.

The first thing John noticed as he walked though the doorway of room 221b was a presence other than that of Sherlock Holmes. The newcomer had taken claim of the chair that normally sat vacant in the corner, and despite it still being early afternoon it seemed as if the light coming in from the lone window overlooking the hospital had dulled from the earlier sunny weather. 

This dimmed light hid the strange in partial shadow, reminding John of those cliché movie baddies who hid in darkness in order to conceal their identity.

John stood for a moment, startled at the unusualness of Sherlock having a visitor. 

A few seconds had passed when finally the heavy silence was broken by an unfamiliar voice. 

“Ah, Doctor Watson.” The decidedly male voice said.

John, though having no prior experience with men hidden in the shadows, immediately found himself disliking this man. Just by the sound of his voice John could tell he was cold and unforgiving in nature.

John cleared his throat quickly and made sure to give a smile that was more false than genuine. 

“Hello. I didn’t know Sherlock was expecting any visitors today.” He said, standing a little straighter. 

“Indeed.” Said the man, who had finally stood and moved into the light. He was tall, John found, over six feet tall and dressed in an immaculate three-piece suit. He held a sleek black umbrella at his side, the handle of which was currently curled within the grasp of his long fingers. The man smirked as he noted John’s slight nervousness. “I always turn up unexpectedly. It’s in my nature. I’m Mycroft Holmes, by the way.” He held out his right hand to John and smirked again to himself as he saw the name _Holmes_ register instantly in John’s eyes.

“Ah yes. You must be Sherlock’s brother. Hello.” John said as he took the offered hand and shook it in a firm handshake. “John Watson.”

“Pleasure.” Mycroft said as he released the doctor’s hand. 

“Tell me, John. Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Sorry?” John asked, taking a nervous step back. 

“Which was it?” Mycroft asked again, a sly smirk on his features all the while. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Af-Afghanistan.” He swallowed, a hard lump in his throat. Few people in this hospital knew of his past, for the reason he didn’t want their pity or respect that came naturally when normal people learnt he’d been a soldier. “But how did you know-”

“I didn’t know. I saw.” Mycroft began, breaking eye contact to look at John intensely up and down. “Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. Even after a month or so since being invalided home – injury to your left shoulder judging by the slight irregularity in your posture – there is still evidence of tan lines on the wrists, suggesting you’ve been abroad but not on holiday. You’re a doctor, and that one of experience too, so you were most likely a medic when you were serving in the army. Wounded in action, suntan, and an army medic. Afghanistan or Iraq.” He finished confidently.

John was speechless apart from a few words darting through his head.

_Amazing. Extraordinary. Fuck._

He wanted to voice these words but he felt this character’s ego was not one to feed. He chose instead say nothing, instead trying to fight in involuntary look of shock spreading over his face. 

“At least, I could have noticed all that if it was necessary. I’ve read your file, of course. Tell me, Doctor.” Mycroft said as he approached the bed where his brother lay. “Why are you here?”

“He is a patient in my care.” John said firmly.

Mycroft only chuckled. “I meant, why are you here now? It’s your lunch break, is it not?”

“I wanted to check up on him.”

“Why?” Mycroft asked.

“Because I am his Doctor.”

The stranger smirked again. John had just met this man and he already found that smirk infuriating. 

“Your leg must be hurting you,” Mycroft said, pointing at it with the tip of his raised umbrella. “Sit down.” He said, gesturing then to the chair he had just vacated.

John was then again left angry and confused by this man’s deductions. Seemed he knew about his leg, too. 

“I don’t want to sit down.” Said John, setting his jaw and fisting his hands at his sides. He _really_ didn’t like this man. 

“You don’t seem very afraid.” Mycroft ventured, voice oozing self-assurance. 

“You don’t seem very frightening.” John quickly retaliated.

He was answered with a deep chuckle. “Ah yes, the bravery of a soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?” 

John refused to answer him this time, refusing to bow to this man’s obvious attempt to unnerve him. He moved to the bed and picked up the clipboard from its holder, trying his best to conceal his limp as he did so. Sarah had given Sherlock a sponge bath about an hour ago, he knew, and according to the stat sheet there was as expected no change in Sherlock’s responsiveness to outside stimuli or overall condition. 

John was, truthfully, unsure of why he’d come here when he could be having lunch. He’d just, well, felt the need. This man who lay in the hospital bed, Sherlock Holmes, somehow felt different to all his other patients. There was still some chance, no matter how small that chance was, that Sherlock would one day wake up from his comatose state. John Watson wanted to make sure he had the biggest chance possible, because Sherlock deserved that chance to be able to recover. To John, if providing Sherlock that chance to wake up meant him giving up some free time and observing his care closer than he would other patients, so be it.

John was sure, however, that he would be restricted in his ability to care for Sherlock at the moment because of the presence of the cold glare that was currently burning itself into his back. 

John took a deep breath, turned and decided to take the risk of pissing this man off.

“Excuse me, Mr. Holmes, but I think you’ll find that visiting hours are not until four o’clock. If you wish to continue to visit your brother in the future, I must insist that you conform to the designated hours, as your interruption, no matter how harmless, may affect your brother’s scheduled care.”

Mycroft showed no obvious signs of annoyance or anger at the words, but John was pretty damn sure he’d just made himself an enemy. So be it. No matter how high and mighty this man may think himself, it didn’t make him immune to the visiting rules opposed to everyone else. 

“Very well.” Mycroft said after a few more seconds of a stare-down. “Good day, Doctor Watson. I shall leave you to attend to my brother.” 

And then he was gone, out the door and somehow taking the pressure in the room with him. 

“Well then,” John began as he took a small sigh of relief and turned back to Sherlock, who seemed to sleep on unaware of what had just occurred. “Your brother’s a bit of a dick, if you don’t mind me saying so.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another break time came for John. Another break time spent in the company of Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my dears! Sorry this chapter is a few hours late. There's a few hours left of Saturday so I say it counts. Hope you like this one! Thank you again for reading! You're all amazing. :)

When someone is in a coma, the stereotypical ideology is that they look and act just as they would if they were simply asleep. It is hard to say whether or not this is true or false, as the knowledge known about the comatose state is severely limited. Little more is known about it than there was thirty years ago.

John had dealt with several previous comatose patients since he began in the medical field, and knew from experience that a person’s ‘coma story’ is as individual as the people themselves. As with many other people in medical circles, John was intrigued with the medical conditions that had discoveries still to be made. 

Correlations between the experiences of coma patients were hard to come by. Some told of blurred images and vivid dreams, their awareness of the world beyond their head fading in and out. Others said that they were consistently aware of their surroundings, and had tried in vain to call out, to open their eyes, to simply _move_. Their bodies were their inescapable prisons, a dead weight that they were unable to shift, whereas their consciousness, their _core being_ , felt weightless. Some reported unexplainable out-of-body experiences: standing beside or floating above their motionless body, seeing themselves in their coma. Some stories even told of flying over the tallest mountains or visiting far away countries whilst their physical form lay in some hospital bed miles away.

It seemed that when in a coma, anything was possible for your consciousness. Infinity was the limit.

Another aspect of the comatose state John had found himself intrigued in was the way that so far all of the comatose patients he’d had in his care in the past hadn’t appeared to look like they did when they were healthy. One memory he had was when he was stationed at a field hospital in the sand-swept lands of Afghanistan. A comrade, a young private by the name of Jackson, had been unfortunate to have his vehicle stuck by a roadside bomb. This young man, still just a boy in John’s eyes, fell into a coma shortly before he died of his substantial injuries. What John had noticed was that when the lad was in his coma was he didn’t look like the man he’d known before the incident. He was hardly recognisable, and not because of his physical injuries. John knew the medical reason for this: the relaxation of muscles in the body, especially around the face when the body was comatose, but that didn’t in John’s opinion describe it well enough. The lad had looked different to the point that his comrades had struggled to believe it was actually him, only accepting his identity by a tattoo on his left forearm they knew Jackson to have.

Perhaps it was for this reason why John had gradually become fascinated with Sherlock Holmes. He’d been in his coma for twenty years. His muscles should have long since deteriorated, his body portraying his ill-health. And yet, John found Sherlock to be the opposite. He had a good muscle mass, similar to that of normal people of the same build. His skin was pale, but not unnaturally ghost-like you’d observe in ill patients. Sherlock just looked asleep, like he’d open his eyes any second and be up and ready to run around the streets of London. John felt as if Sherlock was completely aware of his presence and others when they were in room 221B, listening intently and waiting for the perfect moment to spring up and scare them half to death. He wasn’t like any other patient in a coma that John had ever seen or heard about. This man was different from everyone else, from the immensely long amount of time he’d spent comatose to the fact of just how bizarrely healthy he looked when in his coma.

\--------

Another break time came for John. Another break time spent in the company of Sherlock Holmes.

Today after checking Sherlock’s stats were okay (as expected, no change in any of them) John found himself doing the unusual thing of taking a seat in the plastic chair situated in the corner of Sherlock’s private room. This however wasn’t _that_ unusual – he’d been doing this the past couple of days – using his break time simply watching Sherlock and listening to the ever-regular _beep_ , _beep_ , _beep_ of his heart monitor. What was unusual about this time was that John instead chose to busy himself reading the newspaper someone had left behind in the room when passing through.

He felt, as he always did, that Sherlock was fully aware of his presence in the room. It was as if Sherlock was simply waiting for John to talk to him, to say something to break the strange tension that had formed between them in the empty space. 

To John, despite how mad it sounded, it felt like Sherlock was watching him.

The doctor sighed and lowered the newspaper away from his face. He stood, leaning a little on the armrest as he did to take a little of his weight off his bad leg. Tucking the paper under his arm he dragged the chair from the corner to over by Sherlock’s bedside, the sound of the chair’s wooden legs scraping on the lino floor and filling the room, temporarily drowning out the endless _beep_ , _beep_ , _beep_ of the machines.

John sighed again as he all but fell into the chair. He glanced at the clock on the far wall. Twenty minutes left of his break.

He opened the paper, though lowered it to his lap to allow his eyes the ability to flick to Sherlock every couple of seconds. He fully anticipated that the next time he looked up would be when he’d see Sherlock watching him intently, eyes open and his piercing stare going right through him. 

Of course, he didn’t. 

Maybe one day, one day soon, hopefully, he would be around to see that.

John turned the page in the paper, and at that moment decided to do something different. He chose to start reading aloud.

“Ah,” He said, turning to the page listing properties available in a nearby part of the city. “Sherlock, listen to this. _'To rent: relatively large two floor flat, fully furnished with prime location near the high street. Searching for one or two occupants able to give the place some character. Contact Mrs. Hudson. Call...'_ Sounds like a good place.”

He instinctively waited for a reply. He of course didn’t get one. What exactly did he expect? 

_This man was in a coma, for god’s sake. He isn’t exactly going to jump up and down and suggest you flat-share with him._

John sighed for a third and final time. He turned the page of the paper again and, swallowing hard, began to read Sherlock some of the humorous or downright idiotic letters from readers to the editor.

John found his break coming to an end far too soon for his liking. The time had flown by when reading aloud to Sherlock. 

When he left the room to attend to his other patients, John couldn’t help but somehow feel better for reading to the man. He made a promise to himself then that it wouldn’t be the last time he did it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The other side of Mr. Mycroft Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm sorry for my absence. I've been so busy looking after my grandparents, planning my Africa trip and doing seemingly endless charity work. I've barely slept in weeks!
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for reading this chapter. As always I apologise in advance for any poor grammar. I don't have the time myself or to find someone else to check it.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I'll try and get the next installment up ASAP. :)

A wise person once said that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. What one person perceives as beauty may be a contorted perception to someone else.  
  
However, there were those typical things that the vast majority of people found to be beautiful. Flowers. Sunsets. The odd celebrity’s backside.  
  
Sherlock Holmes, on the other hand, did not often fit into the ‘vast majority’ of anything.  
  
For instance, the vast majority of people would not find simple pool water beautiful. Even if they did, they certainly wouldn’t think it aesthetically pleasing if they were drowning in it.  
  
Those few seconds of consciousness when Sherlock found himself laid on the bottom of the local swimming pool in the early hours of a Sunday morning appeared as if to last for an eternity. And they were, despite the aforementioned state of drowning, the best few seconds of his young life so far.  
  
To be below the water’s surface, staring up at the dancing light was, in the eyes of the eight year old boy, a dream come true. The sight of it fulfilled everything Sherlock had ever yearned for and had yet been denied of: mystery and excitement.  
  
The lines of light far above his head were all connected together in a seemingly random arrangement, with no discernable pattern to it, and yet this web of light appeared to move as one and form one solid entity. It moved and swayed with the minute movements of the water, and Sherlock found himself transfixed. A voice in the back of head held the scientific explanation: _light rays crossing and bunching together to form a bright caustic surface - a surface to which rays reflected or refracted by another surface are tangents_ – or something similar to that effect. _I’ll have to read up on it at a later time_ , a voice in his head remarked.  
  
This alien world of what appeared to be a solid sheet of frosted glass above him formed the barrier between Sherlock and the rest of the world. Under the water, he could find peace and perfection, whereas away from this place he would only find chaos and boredom.  
  
Speaking of chaos, Sherlock was oblivious to the frantic screaming of his older brother, Mycroft, who’d chased Sherlock to the poolside crime scene a few paces behind him only to see him slip carelessly and fall below the surface of the water.  
  
 _“SHERLOCK!”_ Mycroft cried as he watched the boy sink to the bottom of the pool as if held down by lead weights.  
  
The older boy fell heavily to his knees, ignorant of the textured tiles cutting into his skin with the force in which he clambered to the pool’s edge. He called his younger sibling’s name again, his voice breaking as tears choked his throat. He thrust an outstretched hand under the water in the hope of reaching his brother, to no avail. He was too far down. He couldn’t reach him. He couldn’t swim. If he went in, chances were neither of them would get out alive.  
  
Mycroft, barely of an age classified as a young adult, continued to tirelessly cry out his brother’s name in the hope that Sherlock would snap out of whatever trance he was under, for his body to fight to survive and push himself to the surface to take a much needed breath of air.  
  
Mycroft was forced to kneel by the pool and watch as his baby brother drowned.  
  
 _“SHERLOCK!”_ He screamed again, the sound of the call echoing off the walls of the empty pool building. “Sher--” He tried, his voice giving in.  
Tears stung his eyes as Mycroft frantically and desperately tried to think of something to save his brother. No life guard – no pool staff. It was the early hours of the morning when Sherlock had broken in to assess the crime scene. The building was empty except for them.  
  
Wait.  
  
Phone. _PHONE!_  
  
Mycroft scrambled to get a still-wet hand into his coat pocket and grasped the top-of-the-range mobile phone their father had entrusted him with.  
  
“There’s nothing like this available to anyone else right now, Mycroft,” His father had told him. “But I want you to take it. Look after your brother.”  
  
The older Holmes brother flipped open the device and quickly punched in the number of the emergency services. The voice on the other end of the line seemed like a miracle after several long seconds of silence, his ears filled only with the soft lapping of the water against the edge of the pool.  
  
“Ambulance, now! Please help him,” Mycroft tried, struggling to both breathe and process what he was saying. “Oh my god, please help him.” His body was suddenly racked with a loud sob as he begged. “Please. He’s dying. Please help him!”  
  
Mycroft listened to the kind voice telling him to calm down and that an ambulance would be there soon, though he didn’t really hear it.  
  
The only thing he could focus on in that moment is seeing Sherlock on the bottom of the pool, up to that moment appearing lifeless, break out in a wide smile.

\----------

Mycroft woke with a start, his breathing heavy and tears lingering as his eyes darted around the room. The _hospital_ room. _Sherlock’s_ hospital room.  
  
He swung around when he heard the discreet sound of someone clearing their throat behind him.  
  
“Mr. Holmes,” Said John, holding both hands up as if to show he wasn’t there to cause any harm. “You were asleep. It’s getting late. I thought--” He began, interrupted by the sudden movement of Mycroft pushing his chair back and standing from his slumped-over position by the bed.  
  
“Thank you, Doctor Watson. I shall be off now.” Mycroft said, a somewhat defensive tone to his voice.  
  
John said nothing in return, only stared with his eyes filled with sadness and pity.  
  
After a few seconds of glaring Mycroft realised for the first time since he was awoken that he was still crying. _Pathetic_ , he scolded himself as he used the back of his hand to harshly get rid of the tear tracks down his cheeks. He marched to the open doorway of the room, gripping the handle of his umbrella tightly to try and give him a form of support.  
  
“Mr. Holmes.” John said, stopping Mycroft mid-strike in the doorway. He didn’t turn to face the doctor, and instead waited for the man to continue without cue.  
  
“Mr. Holmes,” John said, pausing to clear his throat again. “Please know that your brother is in the best care available.” He said quietly.  
  
“Yes. I am aware of that. Thank you, Doctor Watson.” He replied, his voice stronger and filled with his usual confidence. “I’ll be going now.”  
  
John watched as the taller man disappeared from sight down the narrow hallway.  
  
 _Useless. You were useless that day, Mycroft Holmes. You couldn’t look after him as you were instructed to do. You **failed**._  
  
The swift passing of a smartly-dressed man definitely managed to turn a few heads as he walked with purpose through the maze of the hospital. What caught even more attention was that this stranger, who held himself tall with a straight posture and oozed importance, could not disguise the new tears that clouded his vision. This man, no matter how high he held his head and how far he kept his gaze ahead of him, could not disguise that he was broken inside.

  



End file.
